Chapter Four
The “witch” had deceived him.
Harry had been cheated. The realization had come to him slowly. He’d rejected the idea at first. He’d wanted her to be a witch. He’d wanted her to have the power to save his brother.
He stood there in the middle of the night staring at the Great Oak, willing it to conjure Fenella. He’d waited for three hours before he realized she would not come. Three hours spent cramped and hidden, three hours when he’d dared to let himself hope.
And now? He realized the woman might have been some charlatan who had heard of the money he’d been offering.
He was humiliated. Cheated. He’d even posted a letter to his sister, Margaret, to take heart, that he believed he had found Fenella.
He hated thinking of the false hope he’d passed on to his brother.
Harry was not a man one crossed. He hated double dealing. Even in the military he was known for wanting the truth, no matter how ugly. Only then could he make a reasonable decision.
Damn, he needed a drink or the blessed relief of opium. His game leg had started aching and he was angry enough to tear the head off of someone.
He had to have a release, and for a wild moment, he vented his anger by kicking the tree and stomping on the toadstools, silly, childish gestures, and yet he was in such a rage he needed a release of some sort. He had believed. What a fool he’d been!
Harry had even fallen to his knees in front of her. He’d humbled himself.
He marched off, collected Ajax, and tore off across the moonlit countryside as if the devil was at his heels.
No, he was the devil! When he found “Fenella,” she would rue the day she had thought to cheat him—and he would find her.
And he tried.
For the next twenty-four hours, he wore himself and Ajax to the bone, searching for the woman who had deceived him. She was here somewhere. He knocked on doors, paid bribes, followed every path through forests, over moors, along the shoreline.
Did he know the Scots didn’t trust him? Oh yes, he did, but Harry was beyond caring what they thought. Every fiber of his being was intent on finding this woman.
Of course, his decision to stay had pleased Monty.
“So you will be able to attend the Christmas Assembly. That’s good. That’s good,” Monty said, rubbing his hands. “Do you have something suitable to wear?”
Harry frowned at him, thinking his friend insane. “I am not going to any dance. That is not my purpose here.”
“But you are here. It’s tomorrow evening. You should go.” He paused to add, “You know I need you. And it is the Christmas season, a time when we should gather for good company.”
“No.” Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair and attempted to soften his tone. “I’m sorry, Monty, but I’m not feeling in a festive spirit. I don’t care if Christ himself was present at that dance. I’m failing my brother. I’ve never failed before. I’ve cost lives, but I have never failed.”
“I only thought since you were here . . .” Monty’s voice drifted off and Harry couldn’t help but pity him, standing there alone, surrounded by his dogs who wagged their tails, eager for his attention.
Harry raised his hands to protest and then let them drop to his side. “I must leave on the morrow. I travel to Edinburgh.”
“To what purpose?” Monty asked.
“There is a man, William Donan at the university in Edinburgh, who specializes in folk stories about kelpies and witches. Perhaps he can give me information.”
“You don’t know where you are going,” Monty answered, his doubt about the idea clear.
That was true. But he had exhausted every avenue in Glenfinnan.
“I’m trying my best,” Harry said, speaking more to himself than the general. He looked to his mentor. “I’m sorry, sir, that I can’t help you. Once I’ve found a way to break the curse, I shall return and we’ll sweep every woman in Glenfinnan off her feet.”
“I don’t want every woman,” Monty responded.
“I want just one, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have her.
” He turned away from Harry. “Go on. You’ve been wanting to leave.
You need to carry on. Don’t worry about me.
We are both good soldiers and understand that there is always a calling higher than our own personal desires. ”
“I wish it was different, sir,” Harry said.
Monty’s response was a wave of his hand. “Just don’t fall in love, Chattan. It’s worse than hell.”
Harry could answer that he had already lived his own personal hell, one made up of a love of a different kind, but there was nothing more that could be said that would make the situation better.
He turned and left the room. As he passed the dining room, the cut glass of Montheath’s wine and whiskey decanters gleamed in the room’s lamplight.
Harry gripped the stair railing. His leg was tight with pain and tension from too many hours in the saddle. A dram would make life easier.
Or make it tortured.
He’d fought hard to overcome his vices. He would return to them someday, but not until he had saved his brother. With that promise, he forced himself to climb the stairs.
His valet, Rowan, was waiting with hot compresses for his leg.
The servant had been with Harry since his service in India.
One day in Calcutta, he’d begun following Harry and had soon made himself indispensable.
Over the years, the small man with the dusky skin, unflinching amber brown eyes and impeccable, accented English had proved himself trustworthy, and was greatly valued.
“How did you know?” Harry murmured, so grateful for his valet’s foresight he could have wept. The moist heat immediately eased the cramping in his leg.
“The cold damp is not good for your muscles, Colonel,” Rowan answered, sitting Harry on the edge of the bed and helping him remove his coat and boots.
The manservant had also kept a steaming pot of water on the hearth and in short order had a cup of special “tea” made of dried lemon rinds, basil and honey.
Harry took a good sip, feeling the lemon’s oil settle in his chest before saying, “I can’t find her, Rowan. I’ve searched every inch of this damned place. Fenella was probably a fraud. I can’t believe I was hoaxed.”
“She is one of many who were not true, Colonel.”
“Yes, but the first one who made me believe she was real.”
Harry stared at the fire. Montheath liked a wood fire. Harry appreciated this choice.
“What do you do now, Colonel?”
What did he do now? “It’s not the money.
I don’t care about throwing my money on the woman,” Harry answered.
“But I can’t believe I was so wrong. I could feel her power, Rowan.
She wasn’t like any of the others I’ve met.
And her eyes, Rowan, they were like small moons.
I know that sounds odd but it was the image I gathered. ”
Harry shook his head. He was starting to sound foolish. “We go to Edinburgh,” he informed Rowan. “There is a gentleman scholar there who is said to know a great deal about witches and the like. We’ll leave at first light.”
“Are you certain, sir?”
Harry gave a sharp glance to Rowan. The manservant had never questioned him. “Do you believe we should stay?”
Rowan didn’t answer immediately, taking his time hanging Harry’s jacket in the wardrobe. Harry waited. He expected a response.
The manservant turned and then said quietly, “There is something here.”
“Something or someone?” Harry demanded. He had met mystics in the East. He’d often wondered if Rowan was one, if that was the reason the man had taken up with him, because Rowan had certainly chosen him, not the other way around.
But he’d never asked. He did so now. “Rowan, why did you follow me that market day in Calcutta? Why did you choose me?”
“You are a good man, Colonel.”
“There are many good men. I’m also a man who is fatally flawed. I’ve proved it many a time since you’ve known me.”
“You are a good man.”
“But why, Rowan? Why did you choose me?”
Rowan came over to Harry. He squatted in the native way. His somber gaze met Harry’s troubled one. “I killed a man.” He didn’t wait for Harry to comment but said, “The man deserved to die. He was evil. But I had to atone for my action. I asked goddess Maya for guidance.”
“Maya?” Harry repeated. There were thousands of Hindu gods. He’d not heard of this one.
“The Spider, the spinner of magic. She weaves the web of our lives. I asked her what I should do now because no one saw me kill this man. No one questioned me.”
“Do you regret killing him?” Harry asked.
Rowan shook his head. “He killed my father for our family’s land. He deserved his fate. His karma. He knew I would come, but he was a powerful man. I gave an offering to Maya and she told me to go with the next man I met. It was you, Colonel.”
“She told you?”
A knowing look came to Rowan’s brown eyes. “If you listen, the gods will speak to you.”
“I doubt that, Rowan. I’ve been beyond God’s hand for too long.”
“Listen. Ask Maya.”
The soft command hovered between them.
“I’m not a praying man,” Harry said carefully, “to my God let alone any others.”
Rowan shifted his weight. “Perhaps, sir, it is something you should do. Every man must have a belief. How else does he understand his karma?” He bowed, rose, and withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.
The silence in his wake was unsettling. The servant had been with Harry through two continents. He’d been quiet and unassuming, never asking anything, never challenging—until now.
Harry looked around the room, at the draperies and bed curtains, at the bare floor and the wardrobe. He was alone, and yet perhaps Rowan was right. Perhaps there was something more here. Something he didn’t understand.
But he did believe man controlled his own fate. His karma sprang from the decisions he made, the actions he took.
And Harry didn’t look to a Hindu deity for assistance.
No, he was a lone wolf. It was how he’d survived. How he wanted to be.